13 x 19: Lament (is a title, not my reaction to the ep!)
For spnapo, a thing inspired by caranfindel's
Cold as a razor blade, tight as a tourniquet, dry as funeral drum, and by the Sam &; Rowena dance I wanted to see after 13 x19. Caranfindel's fic is dark, funny, rich, witchy, and perfect (not to mention rhythmic as a spell)--<3!
Caoinheadh
I.
Some of us are born
to the wail of the bean-shìdh
but most of us can die--
Rowena's thigh
split-seamed in scarlet
where Sam slit
the last of the charm
that was the first time.
II.
spontaneous combustion
is rarely either
when it's your time
you burn like a book
of the damned of the devil
who roasted you twice--
or a boy with the devil inside
fire of the black-plagued
pestilence, pride.
III.
You beg for it
redlets spread and trunk
of a man between your thighs:
my own true tree, my giant
who bound you with breath--
you tell him to call me your natural,
mo leannan; he tells you
to call him death.
IV.
Become the crone.
Become the wheel
of the year gone deep
in the fallow of your
three hundred fields
of mother and lease.
Flicker like tallow
in the Sam-circle
who gives you peace.
V.
Burn it all down
before it burns you.
Reapers don't bargain
but we do.
VI.
A born witch can't die
when she's drunk
from the cup of cosmos
but by the thin moon
and the sickle knife
and the blade of his old soul
you falter and fly.
VII.
Sam is bullet packed with poppy,
bless his beautiful black heart.
VIII.
Take up the runes and cast
take up the warp and the weft and the wire
and knot it red and run it over
his dear head and speak to power
and spell against, O Samuel
flow through me like fire
and let me live.
***
Caoinheadh, Scottish Gaelic, lament
mo leannan, ", my lover
Cold as a razor blade, tight as a tourniquet, dry as funeral drum, and by the Sam &; Rowena dance I wanted to see after 13 x19. Caranfindel's fic is dark, funny, rich, witchy, and perfect (not to mention rhythmic as a spell)--<3!
Caoinheadh
I.
Some of us are born
to the wail of the bean-shìdh
but most of us can die--
Rowena's thigh
split-seamed in scarlet
where Sam slit
the last of the charm
that was the first time.
II.
spontaneous combustion
is rarely either
when it's your time
you burn like a book
of the damned of the devil
who roasted you twice--
or a boy with the devil inside
fire of the black-plagued
pestilence, pride.
III.
You beg for it
redlets spread and trunk
of a man between your thighs:
my own true tree, my giant
who bound you with breath--
you tell him to call me your natural,
mo leannan; he tells you
to call him death.
IV.
Become the crone.
Become the wheel
of the year gone deep
in the fallow of your
three hundred fields
of mother and lease.
Flicker like tallow
in the Sam-circle
who gives you peace.
V.
Burn it all down
before it burns you.
Reapers don't bargain
but we do.
VI.
A born witch can't die
when she's drunk
from the cup of cosmos
but by the thin moon
and the sickle knife
and the blade of his old soul
you falter and fly.
VII.
Sam is bullet packed with poppy,
bless his beautiful black heart.
VIII.
Take up the runes and cast
take up the warp and the weft and the wire
and knot it red and run it over
his dear head and speak to power
and spell against, O Samuel
flow through me like fire
and let me live.
***
Caoinheadh, Scottish Gaelic, lament
mo leannan, ", my lover